Left and Right
by The Other Dobby
Summary: George finds it difficult to accept a life without Fred.  "I was left, and he was right. Then he left, and now I can't be either."


**AN: I'm not sure how happy I am with this, so I'd appreciate some feedback **

**Harry Potter most definitely belongs to JK Rowling. **

Fred left. In his place, the darkness rushed in. He was gone, and nothing could fill that void. So Nothing did.

We were never apart. Not for the important things. We always said that if we could come into the world together, then we could damn well go out together. Preferably with a bang. We'd joked about it since we knew what death was, since we found out that people couldn't stay in this world forever. We even made a pact; a promise that we'd never leave the other behind, that we'd never go exploring the next great adventure on our own. We would always keep promises made to each other. Except for one.

He couldn't keep our promise. Why couldn't he keep our promise? Our most important promise? He left, and it was with a bang; the horrific bang of thousand year old stone, exploding and collapsing and crushing the one constant in my life. I wasn't even there. Ron was. Harry and Hermione were. Heck, even Percy was. But I wasn't. The one time we were apart, had to be the time it became permanent.

He left. He's gone. He couldn't be. But he was. But he should be with me. But he's gone. And in his place, is Nothing.

I can't talk anymore. It sounds wrong. Only one voice saying what two would once say. No more well timed interruptions. There's just me, rambling on, then trailing off when I remember there's nobody to cut me off. I can't stand listening to my voice, a solo where there was once a duet. It sounds empty. I keep waiting for him to chime in. Always waiting.

Its as if half my mind is missing. Like half of _me_ is missing.

If I don't look, then I feel as though he's still there. Sometimes I hear him whispering. I can almost feel his breath. He's on my right, just like he's always been. He's always been right, and I've always been left, even when we were pretending to be each other. And so I turn to see him, and there is Nothing. Nothing but the echoes of a boy whispering into the ghost of an ear.

I was left, and he was right. Then he left, and now I can't be either. It isn't fair. Why isn't he here?

People try to talk to me. Dad. Ginny. All the brothers. All the brothers except for the one that isn't here. The one that I need to talk to, to see, to hear. And Mum, of course. Mum tried so hard to make me talk. So hard that she started to cry.

I couldn't explain to her how it felt to suddenly be the only half of what was once a glorious whole. How it felt to always be looking for something missing. How it felt to wait for something that you knew had to be there, because it always had been. I couldn't explain the reason I can't talk anymore. All I could do was hug her, and silently marvel at how much Mum there is to hug when for the first time I wasn't sharing the embrace.

I saw Fred one day. I was sorting through things in the attic, and I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I didn't want to believe it. It couldn't be true. I'd spent so long convincing myself that he wouldn't – that he couldn't – come back. I spun so quickly that I almost slipped over. Yes, there he was, looking as surprised as I felt. I glanced around. I was alone in the dusty room.

I turned back, and he was still looking at me. I reached out to touch him at the same time he did, and we drew back in unison, embarrassed. I still couldn't talk. I was waiting for him to say the first words. I had wanted to hear his voice for weeks. I waited. And waited.

I couldn't stand it any longer, and opened my mouth to speak, just as he did the same. Our mouths snapped shut again. We smiled sheepishly at each other. We were out of practise.

I studied his face. It looked worse for wear. His face was drawn and sallow. His hair had grown long and bedraggled, and it covered his ears so I couldn't see that he had both still firmly attached. I knew it was him though. Who else could it be?

Suddenly, a hand clasped down on my shoulder.

"George," said a voice from behind.

I turned. It was Harry. His emerald eyes were filled with concern.

"George. He's gone."

I shook my head vehemently. He wasn't! He was right there, why couldn't Harry see?

I turned back to share a joke with Fred, about how Harry's eyesight had become even worse.

"George," said Harry, quite firmly. "I know you want it to be true. But it isn't. Trust me, I've spent more than enough time staring at mirrors, trying to see someone that isn't there anymore. He's gone, George. They all are."

Mirrors? What?

Then I saw what I had ignored before. Around Fred's body was a simple wooden frame. Behind him was a precise duplicate of what was behind me. His whole body looked as though it was coated with a sheen of dust, as though he were behind a dirty window. And Fred himself…had the exact same look of horror on his face as I'm sure that I did. A mirror image, in fact. A mirror image.

Harry was still behind me, the concern still in his eyes. It blazed.

"Gone," I croaked. It was the first word I'd spoken in weeks. The first time I'd said that now undeniable fact out loud. The first time I'd confirmed it outside my own mind, where it might still be imagination.

Harry nodded. I started to sob. Not out of sorrow (although there was that), but out of understanding, and acceptance. He was gone. I had told myself that for weeks, but finally it was without the question mark at the end, the hope that it wasn't true. He was gone.

The void that Fred had filled for those few moments was back. But this time, the darkness had spots of light shining through. I knew then, that I would catch up to Fred. And he would be waiting for me before we went on that great adventure. Together.


End file.
